


If it wasn't for that fateful overdose.

by 3All_Just_Stories_in_the_End3 (sandwastesinthevoidofmychest)



Series: L'esprit de l'escalier [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, First Contact, First Meetings, Love at First Sight, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:56:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest/pseuds/3All_Just_Stories_in_the_End3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion ficlet to accompany chapter twelve of 'L'espirt de l'escalier', in which Sherlock hinted at Greg and Mycroft's first meeting. </p><p>“I mean, you two wouldn't have met had it not been for me.” Sherlock smiled hopefully. “Like just think, had it not been for the great overdose of 2006, you two would never have met. Say 'Thank you Sherlock.'”</p>
            </blockquote>





	If it wasn't for that fateful overdose.

2006

 

Gregory Lestrade was not having a good day.

He shook his head and corrected himself, he was not having a good  _life_.

Well that's how he felt.

He was running on caffeine, and knew that if he didn't take a break within the next few hours he would be dead on his feet. He was sitting in a private room of a private hospital, which still couldn't manage to loose the smell of disinfectant and death.

Then to top it all off, the case that was almost solved due to Sherlock Holmes was now on indefinite hold as Lestrade had found the bastard unconscious with a hypodermic syringe in his hand that very morning.

Now that very same bastard was sleeping peacefully after having his stomach pumped, and Lestrade either wanted to punch him or crawl into the bed beside him, kick him out and sleep for the next five years. He hadn't decided which idea that he preferred. They both seemed pretty damn well appealing.

He also needed new shoes. Sherlock owed him.

He could slowly feel his eyelids dropping and try as he did to fight against sleep, it won out.

At least, he thought, the chairs here are more comfortable than the general hospitals.

However, dreaming of the dead coming back to life with bottles of disinfectant in their hands and cleaning anything in their path was not the type of dream he had been going for.

 

“Mr Holmes, sir.” Edgar said, opening the car door and allowing Mycroft, who gave him a curt nod of acknowledgement, to get out of the sleek black car. “This way it is then, sir.” Edgar gestured towards the old hospital building, that looked like a very clean and sterile castle.

Mycroft didn't say anything, he just followed, umbrella digging into the ground where he was imagining Sherlock's face at every step.

One day. One day in the last month where he didn't have more than two appointments.

That day was today, and he was planning on attempting to sleep, because lately two hours each night had been the most he had gotten. He was tired, and now he was annoyed.

One day, and then he received a phone call about him being Sherlock's next of kin and that he was in hospital.

This one day. Mycroft swore that Sherlock did it on purpose.

The doors slid open for both of the men as they walked into the bright, white hospital lobby and trailed up to the reception desk, where Edgar found out Sherlock's room number and directions, and then led the way for Mycroft.

He opened the door for Mycroft, “Sir.” Then remained standing outside.

 

Mycroft was immediately taken off guard by another presence in the room that wasn't Sherlock, and the fact that that other presence was snoring into his chest and wasn't wearing shoes as he sat in the chair beside Sherlock's bed.

Maybe he was a patient from the psychiatric ward?

Mycroft glanced over him again, craning his neck in an effort to observe the man's face.

He was pale, with contrasting dark circles beneath his eyes, he looked ill. It was clear to see by looking at him that he hadn't slept in at least 72 hours, he also wasn't a healthy eater. The suit was well worn, but durable, which implied a good brand but it was too loose, as though it had originally been fitted, but the man had lost at least a stone recently. Busy job then, on the outside.

One thing Mycroft couldn't understand though, was the lack of shoes.

He cleared his throat deliberately and watched with keen interest as this unknown man almost jumped out of his skin.

 

Greg's heart was thumping against his rib cage. He had fallen asleep then, damn. He glanced around with wide eyes, his search glancing over this still unconscious Sherlock and ended at the incredibly well dressed man standing by the end of the bed, with an umbrella hanging off his arm, as he watched Greg with intense interest.

Greg gulped. He was dreaming, yes?

“Hello.” The man said casually, his voice sleek and soft, Greg felt the hair on his arms raise.

He tried to open his mouth, failed, then took a deep breath, unable to take his eyes off the pale face. “...Hi.” He said lamely, and felt like kicking himself. “Why...?”

The man sighed, giving off the impression that he held the weight of the world on his shoulders and he needed to offload it at some point and sleep, “I'm Sherlock's next of kin.”

Greg's face was that of complete and utter surprise and disbelief, “Sherlock's  _married_?”

Confusion crossed the man's face and his forehead creased into three perfect lines, until then a look of recognition danced across his features. “God no.” He seemed mildly amused, but wasn't smiling.

“I'm Sherlock's sibling.”

Greg's face paled, “Oh fuck there's two of you.” He hadn't realised that he had said it out loud until the man looked insulted for a brief second, before he rearranged his features into the composed and mildly interested mask.

“I can safely assure you that we're not so alike.”

Greg sighed and arched an eyebrow, “All right then, prove it.”

“I haven't insulted your intelligence as of yet, I'm sure that's proof enough.” The man said, leaning onto his umbrella.

Greg's eyes fell at last from the man's face, and took in the whole of him.

He was impressed, to put it lightly. The man was wearing a fitted suit along with a waistcoat that showed off his figure beautifully, Greg could even see the gold chain of a fob watch. He felt his cheeks reddening. He hoped that the man thought of it as embarrassment caused by what he had just said.

“What's your name then?” He asked, glancing back up at the man's pale and tired face.

The man stood up a bit straighter, “Mycroft Holmes.”

Greg breathed out, “Posh names run in the family, eh?”

To his surprise, the man's lip curved into a slight smile, “What's your name?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

The man tilted his head, “You were christened 'detective inspector', yet you want to make fun of my name?” An amused glimmer had appeared in Mycroft's dark eyes and Greg wanted to get closer to him and see what colour they really were.

“No! Sorry, Gregory. I'm tired, and definitely not thinking coherently.”

Mycroft nodded appreciatively, “Gregory is most certainly a dashing name.”

The blush on Greg's cheeks deepened, the way his name sounded in Mycroft's voice sent shivers down his spine.

 

Mycroft's curiosity peaked when he saw the blush deepen, he had been aware of it when Greg had glanced over him, but now he was scarlet.

“Where are your shoes?” Mycroft finally asked, craving the answer for the question that had been puzzling him since he noticed that Greg wasn't wearing shoes.

Greg glanced down at his feet as though he had forgotten that he wasn't wearing shoes, “Your brother decided that he would like to get sick over them.” He said sounding less than impressed.

Mycroft sighed, cast another glance at Greg's feet and left the room.

Edgar turned to look at him, “Are you done already, sir?”

Mycroft shook his head, “No. I need you to do me a favour.”

“Anything, sir.”

“I need you to buy a pair of black shoes that are a male's size ten.” He said as he handed Edgar one hundred pounds.

“But sir, you're a size nine.”

“I know. They're not for me. Thank you, be as quick as you can. We may be in the cafeteria.” Mycroft turned around to enter Sherlock's room again as Edgar dimly muttered acceptance in a defeated tone and left.

Greg glanced up at Mycroft again once he walked inside. “Would you like to go for a coffee?”

“Jesus yes.” Greg mumbled standing up and joining Mycroft.

 

Mycroft even smelt alluring. Greg tried not to be obvious about the fact that he was clearly inhaling this new and alien scent. He just about stopped himself from asking what cologne Mycroft was wearing.

When they reached the cafeteria, Mycroft told Greg to find a table and then he went to get the coffees.

Mycroft sat down across from Greg, his leg accidentally brushing up against Greg's for a split second.

“You look annoyed?”

Mycroft sighed. “I'd forgotten my dislike of hospital coffee.” He glanced down at the styrofoam cup with distaste and Greg couldn't help but laugh.

“At least it's caffeine.”

“Ah.” Mycroft mumbled, almost to himself, “You're an optimist.”

Greg nodded. “How else would you survive in a job like mine?”

“Point.” Mycroft mumbled.

 

Edgar walked into the cafeteria carrying the newly purchased shoes. He saw Mycroft laughing, head thrown back, guard down with another man who was staring at him with a dazed and enchanted expression on his face. “Sir.” He said, appearing beside Mycroft and holding out the box to him.

The man who was sitting across from them looked between them, confusion clear on his face.

“Thank you Edgar. That will be all.”

He nodded, smiled politely and walked over to the other side of the cafeteria, out of sight.

_I need to get a new job._

 

“You have a butler?” Greg asked in astonishment.

Mycroft shrugged nonchalantly, “Slash bodyguard. Here, new shoes.”

Greg glanced at Mycroft with disbelief. “What?”  
“You heard me.”

“But you don't know my shoe size.”   
“I saw.”  
“Oh god not you too.”  
Mycroft laughed quietly to himself, “Do you like them?” He asked as he watched Greg open the shoebox.

“You didn't have to, thank you, yes.” Greg said quickly, glancing at the shining new shoes, and then putting them on. They were perfect.

Mycroft nonchalantly shrugged it off, “If we had time,I would take you to buy a new fitted suit.” He said simply, “Your current one is...lacking in what it could do.”

Greg felt himself blush once again, “Oh so you work in fashion?”

Mycroft looked a little like he had just been slapped in the face, “What on earth gave you  _that_  impression?”

“Well everything really.”  
Mycroft snorted.

“So you're...?”  
Mycroft threw him a questioning look, “Ask me what you want to.”

“Are you gay?”

“Are you?”

“I asked you first.”

Mycroft sighed, “I...I'm drawn to the person, not the gender. The gender has no effect on me.”

Greg nodded, “And Edgar?”

Mycroft tilted his head inquisitively.

“You and him?”

Mycroft laughed quietly, “Oh no.”

“At all? Just the way he looks at you...?”

Mycroft's eyes found his coffee cup, “Once.”

Greg nodded, “Thought as much. I mean I was a body guard for a member of parliment once and these things tend to happen, don't they?”

Mycroft who had been taking a reluctant gulp of coffee, began sputtering and coughing.

“I'll take that as agreement, so what do you do?” Greg said, amusement clear in his face.

Once Mycroft began breathing normally again, he sat up straighter. “I occupy a minor position in the British government. Essentially...I kind of employ you.” There was something dancing now in Mycroft's eyes.

Greg grinned, “Well then, I hope we'll be seeing more of each other.”

Mycroft glanced at his watch, standing up. “I'm sure we'll cross paths again, Gregory.” He cast Greg a smile and walked casually out of the cafeteria, leaving Greg sitting there perplexed and curious.

 

What he didn't know was that they would in fact meet many times within the next few months, but only infuriating smiles and glimpses once in a while, until that one fateful night where Greg had walked right into Mycroft as he left Baker Street, overtired and blood composed of caffeine. Mycroft too, was in a much similar condition.

They fell together that night.

Touches, kisses, fingers, lips, bites, nicotine stained teeth.

They both woke up knowing that there really could be no going back now.

There was too much still left, the electricity had heightened if anything.

It wasn't going to fade away any time soon.


End file.
